


Orion

by NightBearrors



Category: Adventure Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightBearrors/pseuds/NightBearrors
Summary: An old modern day AUOriginally divided into seven chapters, but eh





	Orion

Orion 1/7

You see her sitting close to the window. She's early, which is so strange you have to smile, and she has already ordered a coffee. She takes a sip as she checks her phone and you see her frown slightly at the screen. That makes you smile too; she's always been impatient. 

You decide to tap on the window instead of entering the local shop to greet her and she jumps at the sound. You laugh and the smile she gives you through the glass makes your chest tight, makes you nervous all over again. Seeing her face again has you hesitating; all you can see is that look she gave you the last time you had been face to face, at the bar. You had agreed to meet up here, but every time you had thought about it your gut twisted in uncertainty like it is now. You keep thinking how bad an idea it is, even though it was your idea. You were the one to call. You were the one to ask. You were almost the one to cancel.

She's standing now, grinning at you like a fool and mouthing something to you through the glass, so you decide it a good time to enter the shop and actually greet her. You can't stop your own foolish grin when she calls to you and actually hugs you. Her shirt is soft to the touch; old flannel, and her arms hold you in such a familiar way it stirs everything you thought had died in her absence with one strong gust, a hurricane through your lungs. She doesn't smell the same; it's a different detergent that she's using and a different deodorant too. She feels the same though and the embrace doesn't last long enough.

"Sit down!" she says enthusiastically and you obey without hesitation. "You looked really good the other night by the way." She says, looking almost bashful behind her veil of dark hair. It slips past her lips so easily you don't even think twice about your response as she takes her seat across from you:

"And I don't look good now?" You smile as she stumbles a minute with a response, but then she's laughing, smile all teeth. She tucks her hair behind an ear and the effect on your chest is immediate; it seizes with nerves and drops in to your stomach. If there was any doubt in you about your attraction to her it is crushed in that moment.

"You know you always look good, Bon." She fiddles with the corner of the cheap, laminated menu on the table as she says it, but she looks at you, not it, and it's so sincere you feel yourself grow flustered. You feel stupid that you still find her so charming and force yourself to calm down; it's just Marceline.

"Wish I could say the same about you," you say, joking, and you grin at her sarcastic laugh. You don't have the courage to tell her how nice she looks now or how you just want to touch her hand that's twisting around that menu. You start talking instead about the work you're doing in the lab, your twin cousins, your best friend. Her dog, life on the road, music collaborations.

Time ticks by at the count of her words and you feel her voice, her smile, pulling you toward her. You realize with alarm, as she's going on about a song she is currently writing and the challenges of figuring out the right chord for each verse, that you want to kiss her. She is talking, so passionate about her work, and you are drawn to it, to her, in an unfamiliar way. You like her passion. She has always had it, but not like this; she had a fiery temper and would always get caught up in her own emotions. It used to be destructive. This passion isn't like that; it is directed and controlled and productive.

"What?" she suddenly asks and you realize you must have been staring like an idiot. She looks amused, like she already knows what you're thinking, and you can't help feeling embarrassed. You watch her thumb run over her cup's handle and shake your head with a subconscious smile.

"Keep going," you reply simply, folding your hands together on the table to fidget self consciously for a moment. She continues her thought, still smiling a little smugly, and conversation goes on easily enough. After a few topic changes and cups of tea she finally asks:

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing really. Why?" you respond and your heart jumps into your throat as you take a sip of tea. You know how these things work; she's about to ask to see you again. The thought makes your blood thunder and you have to concentrate on breathing evenly. It's a bad idea; you can feel yourself already wanting more of her and you're still not sure if what she wants is simply platonic or what. It's her last day in town; she has told you she's leaving early the next morning, and a part of you wonders if today will simply be a onetime deal. Her hands curl around her mug, elbows settle on the table, and her shoulders hunch. She watches the remnants of her coffee instead of your face.

"There's a get together at the Ghost siblings' place later. A bonfire. Uh..." She hesitates and you're tempted to save her from floundering but she recovers on her own quickly. "Would you like to go? Have a few drinks maybe? And marshmallows?" She's smiling, but you can see she's nervous as she glances to your face. The "Ghost" siblings are old friends who used to, and apparently still do, hold large house parties. They were all tricksters and a little mean spirited, hence their nickname, but the get-togethers had always been interesting and you're about 93% sure now, as she sits there waiting for an answer, that she isn't seeking a strictly platonic relationship with you. You're keen to the idea, but you're still not sure about the one day deal.

"Yeah, I'd love to," you reply, setting your cup down. She seems relieved at your response; the crease in her brow vanishes.

"Great! It starts around nine and goes until whenever." She's smiling still, her ears slightly flushed, and her hand is so close to yours on the table all you would have to do is twitch to touch her. You pull your hands back to fold them in your lap instead.

It's 5:06 P.M.

Orion 2/7

You're beyond a little nervous when your best friend's car comes to a stop in front if the familiar house. You knead the trim of your skirt between sweaty palms and watch the silhouettes of people move and dance in the dim light of the street lamps. The house is relatively large, surrounded by open spaces but altogether enclosed by woods and it sits on a steep hill with wooden steps leading all the way down, though it's unnoticeable from the front. The only reason you know about it is because you have been here a handful of times before.

You force yourself to take a steadying breath and look to your friend. She smiles reassuringly at you, but questions your wellbeing anyway.

"I'm good," you reply easily enough; you don't really want to have that conversation with her, especially when you're not exactly sure what you want out of tonight or why you're letting yourself become so giddy. Before she can ask you anything more you thank her, tell her not to wait up for you, and exit her car. You know she will hound you for answers later anyway.

No one really greets you; you melt into the small crowd quickly enough in the dark to avoid that. You can hear boisterous laughter and voices and it all reminds you of your early college days and the porch parties in the summers that would go long in to the night. You had never actually stayed until the end of one and as you make your way closer to the fire you are reminded of why; you're uncomfortable. The atmosphere is loud and most people there are annoying in their enthusiastic intoxication, especially because you don't recognize many, but then you hear:

"PB! Girl, is that you!" and suddenly an old friend embraces you and you can't stop yourself from laughing.

"LSP! How are you! I haven't seen you in- Wow, a long time!" She releases you to step back and take you in against the brightness of the porch lights. She looks as if she hasn't changed at all since graduation. Her hair is still dyed a deep purple, a striking reminder of your days as a sorority sister. Yours had been a bright pink.

"I'm great, girl! And look at you all dolled up." She waggles her eyebrows at you before nudging you with an elbow: "Looking to snag some arm candy, huh?"

Before you can do anything other than smile though she's gripped your arm tight with a distraught expression on her face and is looking beyond your shoulder.

"Oh- my god!" You're not really sure what to do so you just freeze and say:

"What?" She doesn't even shift her gaze to you when she responds.

"Brad and Melissa are totes making out!" You can only give her a sour expression. She doesn't notice. You had forgotten about her eccentricity.

"I can't flippin' believe this." She releases you then, but only to snatch her cellphone from her pocket and she starts typing away on it to leave you standing there in an awkward silence.

"Uhm..." you eventually hedge.

"Sorry, PB." For a moment you think she's going to put the phone away to continue talking with you, but then she adds "I gotta go. I can't believe this!" And just like that she walks away and your encounter has ended. Yes, this is definitely like your college days.

You huff a sigh and tap your small latch purse to your chin in a show of exasperation. This was a bad idea. You should just go home. You had never been a fan of parties much besides.

You turn to walk back toward the street, watching your feet. You have a killer pair of heels on that make your legs look fine as hell and you're a little disheartened about going through the trouble of actually wearing them only to go unappreciated by everyone, save an old sorority sister. Yes, you had dressed up a bit, but if asked you'll deny it undoubtedly; why would you dress up for a stupid porch party bonfire after all? It definitely wasn't for that lanky musician. Of course not.

You look up with a sigh. It feels like a waste regardless; all dressed up with no place to go, as they say. You're even wearing a formfitting t-shirt to show off your curves. You start to feel stupid for bothering, but then you hear someone laugh near the back porch and that's when you find her. She's sitting in a lawn chair, slouching, with a beer bottle at her feet on the cement square of the porch, yellow-tinged light illuminating her smile. Her knee is bouncing up and down, a nervous habit, and her hands are folded across her stomach. She is mid conversation and hasn't seen you yet. For a moment you don't think she will, but then her eyes catch yours and she's up, out of her seat, not even excusing herself.

"You made it," she greets you.

"I did," you reply with a nervous laugh and suddenly you feel exceptionally self-conscious; she's wearing the same plaid shirt she had on early that day, the same pair of jeans too. Maybe you really shouldn't have dressed up.

"Want something to drink?" She doesn't mention your attire at all and it's more than mildly disappointing. But it isn't as if you dressed up for her. You don't need her recognition. You're a strong woman who don't need no man-er- woman.

"Sure.”

In the short time she leaves you there on the porch, two unfamiliar people try to strike up conversation with you and you want nothing more than to get away from them; one even starts calling you "Princess." You're reminded quite vividly of an encounter you'd had one night on a trek home from the bars. An old drunk had tried to grab you. You had knocked him out before he could call you “Princess” again.

You sigh inwardly and again contemplate leaving when you are told to not “be like that,” but then she's back again, handing you a cold glass bottle and smiling at you and you don't want to go home so much anymore as the small group of people decide to finally leave you be.

She starts to say something and someone yells to her from farther down the hill near the fire, cutting her off. They're saying something about some game but she just gives them a wave and turns back to you.

"Wanna walk down to the crick?" she asks and you smile as you open your beer.

"You mean 'creek?'" She flashes her teeth and gently pushes your shoulder. You laugh in to your bottle.

"Whatever, Brainlord; let's go."

It's 12:39 A.M.

Orion 3/7

You're not wearing the right shoes for this, but you don't complain because the first time you wobble on a heel her hand springs out to grab your arm and hasn't let go of it since.

"It's been a while since I've been back here." Your voice breaks the quiet. She huffs a small laugh and you feel her fingers flex against your sleeve.

"Yeah, same here. It's a little weird." She helps you step over a small old log, taking the bottle from your hand. "But I figured I should see everybody while I'm in town." A flicker of doubt sparks in you at her words, but you only respond with a noncommittal "Mm" as you take back the beer. She doesn't say anything more the rest of the way, but she doesn't remove her hand either. It cools your worry like the condensation licking your hand and the thought of warm beer urges you to take a drink while it's still algid in your hand.

You hear the small stream of water before you see it and soon she has stopped by its banks with her eyes skyward. You follow her gaze and there is a fair amount of light pollution that coats the sky with a green tinge. It's a sight you're quite used to; there are nights in the midst of your research you find escape on your building's rooftop, your only company either Science, the topaz rat, or the rooftop pigeons.

"You know..." Her voice is soft and her hand gently squeezes your elbow before finally releasing you. Her hands disappear into her pockets and she slouches, looking every bit the woman she was when you first met. "There was this night, I think we were on the way to Calgary, and our bus broke down." You look at her smile, all teeth, but she's still watching the sky. You've never heard this story.

"We were stranded on the side of this road in the middle of nowhere." She shakes her head. "But, God, Bon, there were so many stars." It's as if she's imagining them all where they should be above her. You smile too.

"I wish you could've seen 'em. They were beautiful." And she looks at you as if the freckles on your face are as awe inspiring as those stars, but then her eyes move back up and she points: "The only ones you can really see are Orion's belt."

You find the three stars in their familiar line and you hum in acknowledgment.

"The story of how he got there isn't a very happy one," she comments in response.

"Who?"

"Orion," and she's grinning at you like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Oh..." She laughs. You flash her a smile, only a little embarrassed. "How did Orion come to be a bunch of stars then?"

"Well there's actually a couple versions. Even just going with the Greek stories." You give her a questioning look and she continues: "Greek myths tend to be a bit jumbled. Their pantheon is pretty complex and contradictory. Violent too. With a lot of sex." She laughs and you can't help laughing with her.

"Really?" You don't know much about ancient mythology; you had always been more interested in the sciences than anything else. It was one thing the two of you had never quite seen eye to eye on. She always had an interest in folklore and myth. You never quite saw the appeal; they were just fabrications, nothing like the data you strive so hard to collect.

"Yeah. One of the stories about Orion, he's in love with this woman, Merope, but it's unrequited so he gets drunk and takes her anyway." You almost choke on a gulp of beer.

"Wow." You set your bottle down at your feet, brow furrowed; you had quite lost the desire to drink.

"Yeah. It's messed up. In another version he courts hers and her father is the one who doesn't want him around. Her father curses him with blindness in both versions though and Orion has to go on this quest to regain his sight." You much preferred the angry father version of the story. "He actually later hunts with Artemis-"

"The goddess?" You swear her eyes sparkle at your interruption, an excited little smile on her lips.

"Yeah. And she falls in love with him too.” Her eyes on you are making your cheeks burn and though it's dark you're pretty sure she's quite aware of it. “But then her brother tricks her into killing him." Her smile falters.

"Oh." You start slightly in surprise; you wonder how it's possible to trick someone into killing their lover.

"She's the one who puts him up there." She nods toward the three stars. "There's a lot more that happens between everything, but." She shrugs, hands still tucked in her jean pockets.

"How does she kill him?" You can't help asking. You're still trying to figure out how that type of betrayal is possible.

There's a flash of teeth again, an amused smile. "Apollo-"

"The Sun guy?" you interrupt again.

Her smile warms. "Yeah. He bets her that she can't hit this speck out on the sea. She fires an arrow-" Marceline mimes the action, pulling her hands up, "-turns out the speck was Orion." She looks at you, eyebrows raised slightly and hands still holding an imaginary bow.

"Not very romantic, is it?" You frown slightly.

"No. Not at all." She smiles, reserved, and lets her arms fall back down to her sides.

"How do you know about all of that?"

"I read, Bonnie." You feel yourself flush at her smirk and you turn away to stare at the gurgling water. You feel stupid for having questioned it, and the small part of you that sparked a want to retort folds. She is still charming, even more charming really because you know she isn't trying to be. The realization makes you scrub at your cheek with a palm; she is so attractive, even when she's talking about violent Greek myths or sending back a quip about her literature habits.

You have to get yourself together. At this rate-

Her shoulder bumps in to yours and it shocks you from your thoughts. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at you, but you can see her smiling in the darkness. Her eyes are on her dirty sneakers.

You feel anxious in the quiet suddenly, like it's a tense pause before some catastrophe. You lean in to her without a word and she just glances at you.

After a long moment her hand slips in to yours. It shoots a warmth through you and you shiver at the sudden shift in temperature. You take a breath in and then braid your fingers together with hers in a deliberate, almost cautious way before you can talk yourself out of it. She gives your hand a light squeeze and you press your face in to her shoulder, feeling your nerves plateau in to a steady hum at the base of your skull. She still smells like fire.

She pushes against you and pulls you in at the same moment. Your hand clutching the purse is touching her side and her fingers are gracing your cheek and you don't even have to think about it before you're closing your eyes and kissing her. It's hesitant at first; soft. But then you hook your arms around her waist and pull and you're kissing her harder. You twist one hand in to the cloth on her back and, God, did you miss this. 

"Bon-" is all she manages, breathless, before you quiet her again in your aggressiveness. You know this is a bad idea; the two of you didn't work before and time passing doesn't fix all the reasons behind the broken relationship. But in that moment, as you feel her hand run up the side of your thigh, you don't care; you just want. You want her, if only for one night, even if she is so different in a strange, familiar way. 

You hum in to her. She knocks your empty bottle on its side with a shifting foot; you hear it meet the water, but it doesn't get a chance to register in your mind before her nails are tickling your legs in a way that makes you shiver.

"Do you want to get out of here?" she asks. You nod as you go to press lips to collarbone around her flannel. Even her skin smells like a fire, smokey and hot, and when you touch you hear her sigh before she's grabbing your hand to lead you away.

You don't tell anyone you're leaving.

You catch a cab. The ride is quiet but you're holding her hand and her thumb is rubbing against your fingers in a slow circle of a pattern so you don't let yourself think about it too much.

It's 1:54 A.M.

Orion 4/7

The sound of her key turning the lock sends a jolt of nerves through you and you tighten your grip around her hand slightly. Are you really going to do this? Her door opens and she beckons you inside with a small tug and a sly glance made of fire. You follow it like a moth. 

You're really going to do this.

“Was this for me?” she asks once you're both inside, voice low as she looks you head to toe, shuts her flat's door behind you. She doesn't turn the lights on, just backs you against the door, arms on either side of your shoulders trapping you there, not that you mind, and you flash a coy smile at her. So she did notice.

Your palm is flat against the wood of her door, fingertips itching at the chipped paint there. Her gaze is hungry as she leans in,

“It was, wasn't it?” she asks, breath hot on your ear. You can hear the smile in her voice and you don't deny it, just press your mouth to her neck to drag your teeth against her, your hand quickly leaving the old door to curl through her hair. She pulls your purse from your other hand and tosses it on the small stand, the one with the little bowl you remember having held her car keys years ago. You thank her by cupping one of her breasts and sucking gently at the skin under your tongue.

The first time she ever touched you it was slow and careful and appreciative. The last time she ever touched you it was rough, heated, and angry, but you had ached for it then like you're aching for it now and her palms feel like low burning embers when they run up under your shirt. They sear your skin in their impatience and you swear you can hear her growl softly into you.

Her lips sliding along the ridge of your ear makes your breath hitch and relinquish her neck. She still remembers what makes your knees weak it seems. You tweak her nipple through her bra, because you remember her weak points too, and her mouth finds yours, it just as impatient as her hands. Your breath comes out in a rush when you break apart again and she looks at you in a way that makes your cheeks burn. You think you see something feral there before she kisses you again and her fingers tickle the fabric of your underwear. You're secretly overjoyed you had decided on the extra cute pair with the little bows on the hips as a breathy sigh escapes your lips around her. Apparently that was the sign she'd been waiting for; her hands shoot to the backs of your thighs and she pulls you flush around her waist as she lifts you clear off the floor.

The very fact that she can lift you and hasn't broken the kiss makes you greedy for her touch with a renewed fervor. She sets you on the small kitchen table, clearing it with one sweep of her arm before pushing you flat on your back. Without any hesitation she loops her thumbs around the little bows of your underwear and pulls them off from beneath your skirt in a quick, smooth motion like she has done it a thousand times before. You try not to think about that as she discards them on the floor. 

You still have your shoes on. You're mindful of that as you sit up on your elbows and hook a leg around her waist.

Her hands hike up your skirt in response, but then stop all at once and when you look up from them she's staring at you as if she is about to say something. There is a quiet moment where your nerves constrict your vocals; you don't know why she is stopping, just that you don't want her to. You wonder if perhaps she is having second thoughts. You bite your lip, but refuse to move otherwise and only then does she speak:

"I leave tomorrow morning." There is a lot more than a simple statement in those words and you understand what she is trying to tell you: this is temporary. Her hands are still at your thighs, awaiting a response.

"I know," you reply, voice hushed, because you know, you know, you know. You're only getting tonight, and tonight will just have to do.

You grab one of her wrists and guide it under your shirt to touch the skin of your stomach. She looks surprised, but matches your gaze for just another moment before she furrows her brow, leans in, slow, and kisses you. It's soft and thoughtful and you have no idea what it means.

Her fingers slide under your bra easily enough and her thumb runs circles over your nipple. You hum in to her at the touch and the sound makes her other hand venture further to tickle the tuft of hair on your mons.

You grab at the fabric of her shirt while you kiss her, relaxing in to the familiar brush of her calloused fingers against you, and begin to unbutton her top.

You push it away from her shoulders, silently telling her to discard it. Her hands leave you when she obeys but you don't mind much because now she's in a tank top that accentuates the muscle of her arms and shoulders.

There is a tattoo on one bicep that you don't remember and the possibility strikes you with an unnerving force of how much she could have changed in your absence.

Your fingers trace the ink burned permanent to her skin and you take it in like lines on a page. You want to know what has changed. What did she do in all that time gone? Where did she go? What did she see? Who did she become? 

She smiles and lets you pass the dark lines over again, but she is soon kissing down your jaw line and neck and it is distracting in a delicious way.

She says nothing as she pulls up your shirt and bra, but she doesn't remove them entirely, just leaves them bunched above your breasts. Her mouth closes around one of your nipples before you can complain. The feeling makes your breath shaky and as you watch her, knead her shoulder, your hips press in to her. You don't want to rush this, not tonight, but you're burning and she presses back, pushes your spine flat against the tabletop. You have seen her from this angle many times, but it never did get old.

You pull at the buckle of her belt and she doesn't move to help you with it, but you manage to loosen it anyway. You open your mouth, about to demand she remove her jeans, but then she kisses your stomach and the action is so familiar you know what is going to happen next: she pulls you closer by your thighs, both of her hands wrapping around your skin, and her tongue darts out to taste your hip. It is a dance the two of you have done many times before and her lips on you make you feel needy in a fiery way.

You pull your skirt up, and she lets out a short laugh at the silent direction you have given her, but she obeys anyway; her mouth moves to your thigh.

You only let go of the skirt to grab at her back, fabric bunching in your hands. Her mouth is soft, softer than you really remember it being. It's cute, you think, that she is treating you so gently, but really that is the furthest thing from what you want tonight. You slip a hand under her chin to pull her eyes to your own and your smile is devious as you whisper

"You don't have to be so careful." And so she isn't with you.

You hear the table creak to her new found rhythm. And your fingers scuttle-skip across the wood to grasp at the side in the increased pace and you hear a breathy whine escape your own throat as your eyes flutter shut and your other hand grasps at her back, pulling her tank tops fabric up to bunch and twist in your palm.

The feeling of her is familiar, as is the white hot sun rising in your belly, but there is a prickle in your chest and in your throat and as you take a shuddering breath your eyes well with tears. The feeling of her shoulders beneath your fingertips is too much. You remember the heat from her back, but having it in your hands again, having her again, fills you with a terrible sadness and want, and you know it too well. You want, you want, you want and suddenly just tonight isn't enough and nothing now is enough.

The tears are relieving in a strange way as you climax and they spill down across your temples to rest in your hairline as you release your voice and shudder against her, but you are embarrassed by them and their quantity anyway.

You pull her face from you to press your mouth to hers and you note the taste of yourself on her, but you don't want her to see the dampness of your eyes; you don't want to ruin the one night she is giving you.

She responds hungrily and even cups your face with a hand, but she pulls back with a start and you know the jig is up; you look away with a sharp inhale and run the back of your hand and thumb across your cheeks to catch the quickly drying saline there.

She stares at you.

You glance at her.

For a moment you are at a stalemate. 

"You can tell me no." Her voice is a whisper and a little choked. She has a strangely reserved expression on her face but otherwise is still; you don't think she's moved since she saw your face.

And it dawns on you that she is misreading your release of emotion. It may have been funny if she wasn't so serious and you hadn't been crying. You shake your head with a frown.

"No-" and she pulls your shirt back down to cover your nakedness with a quick jerk, then backs away as if you were going to burn her. It surprises you. 

She re-clasps her belt.

"That's not-..." You tumble over words; she looks stricken.

"I'll call you a cab." She's walking away.

"Marce, I'm-" She's pulling out her cellphone.

"This isn't- Marceline!" She's putting it to her ear.

"I'm not Merope!" You finally manage. You're not sure how it really came out that way, but there it is, hanging in the air between you. She looks at you, brow furrowed, receiver still to her ear.

"...What?" is all she says.

"I'm not Merope." you repeat. You see her hesitate, then hang up to stare at you, bewildered.

"Oh," she mumbles after a moment and you know she understands, as confused as she looks.

You don't know how to explain. You want her. You want her and those shoulders and that lilting voice. But you can't want that. You can't have that. Your lives are too different now. You're holding yourself, tears threatening to spill over again.

Then it hits you:

"I'm Artemis," you blurt and it is the strangest confession to ever slip from your mouth.

"You're-...?"

"Artemis."

You see the realization hit her, like a wave crashing over a cliff.

It's 3:17 A.M.

 

Orion 5/7

After your confession she doesn't actually say anything. She just looks lost in her own kitchen; she's staring at the floor tiles, phone still in her hand. You knew it would be a bad idea. You got sentimental, thought things could be different or that just one night maybe wouldn't really matter. You slide off the table and the heels of your shoes click against the linoleum. Her attention refocuses at the sound; she's staring at your feet.

She does something strange then; she kneels and begins to unbuckle your shoes. You let her, because, really, you're not sure this can get any worse than it already has. She pulls them off and you use her shoulder to steady yourself. She sets them neatly beside a leg of the table and you can't help thinking this may be one of the strangest things you've ever seen her do.

She doesn't explain herself, just grabs your hand and leads you down the hall to her bedroom. She leaves the door open with you at the threshold to rummage through a dresser drawer. You watch her, watch her back shift under the darkness of her hair until she turns back toward you, cloth in tow. 

“Here,” she says quietly. She's holding out a pair of pajama bottoms you actually recognize and a worn cotton t-shirt that you don't. “I'm going to make some tea,” she explains when you don't move to accept them. So she doesn't want you to leave, at least not yet. You feel anxious at the thought of talking to her over tea in her apartment, but it is a giddy anxiousness and you move to take off your shirt and bra. She adverts her eyes. Some animalistic part of you demands you do something about that.

You don't take the pajamas. Instead, you shimmy out of your skirt and pull off your stockings. She's too curious to keep her eyes on the floor; they're flitting back and forth from your bare skin to the carpet, but she's still holding the pajamas out to you. You can't help thinking it's cute.

“Marceline,” you say quietly and her eyes finally stop on your face. You gently take hold of her wrist and drop the clothes on the ground beside your own. You see her swallow and try her hardest not to stare at your breasts. 

“Take off your shirt,” you command softly and that's when she pulls back.

“You don't have to-”

“I missed you.”

“What?” You feel a little bad for confusing her so much.

“It's why-...” You can't look at her when you say it. “It's why I was-...emotional. Not because I don't want to be here or anything like that. Okay? So don't be all melodramatic about it; it's not a big deal.”

“I just-”

“I know. I'm sorry if it was weird-” She kisses you suddenly, her hands pulling your face in to the contact, and it's your turn to be caught off guard.

“I was so afraid I did something wrong. Or hurt you.” She whispers it quickly, hands threading through your loose hair, and she stays close so that you can't really look at her. Her forehead presses against yours and her mouth pulls in to the slightest frown. She sighs in to you, then moves her hands to run her palms up your back in a slow embrace. You feel her shift to place a kiss on your shoulder and it is so soft and careful. You think now that maybe you understand what that kiss on her kitchen table had meant.

“You didn't.” She holds you tighter when you respond and it does hurt suddenly, all of it. She's lovely, every inch, and you curl a hand through her hair and breathe her in. You want. You want in a painful way now. Not for yourself, but for her.

“Take off your shirt,” you command again, soft. She brushes her fingertips down your sides when she pulls away to remove her tank top and you shiver against the light touch before helping her out of her jeans. There is another new addition you note, to her thigh this time, a solid black design your fingers quickly begin to trace. It is strange, being with her like this again. It's like revisiting an old favorite book; you've forgotten some of the best parts. This was Marceline though, not one of your books. But then she always was your favorite thing to read.

You lead her under the covers, straddling her as your palm smooths over her clavicle, the slight pressure guiding her to lay on her back beneath you. She's flushed and her eyes are half-lidded as they take in the expanse of your skin. You want to make sure you take your time and so you place kisses down her throat and across her jaw and tease your nails gently along her sides and across her thighs until she whispers a pleading:

“Please.”

It's 4:03 A.M

Orion 6/7

She hands you a mug of chamomile, everything about the moment so familiar as you sit in your underwear and her loose-fitting t-shirt, legs tucked beneath you on her aging couch. She sits beside you, her own maroon mug resting against pursed lips, a contemplative stance you know well.

“Where are you flying to tomorrow?” you decide to break in. Sometimes she would sit and stare in to space like that for hours, getting tangled and caught in her own head. You didn't want to see her like that tonight.

She blinks over at you, lowering her mug slightly,

“Berlin.” She sips her tea, smiles softly, “We're touring through Europe this year.”

You fidget with the corner of the couch cushion, a sudden thought hitting you. Thousands of people know her name now. She was performing halfway around the world in stadiums that were a far cry from the little venues you used to visit just to hear her play in a half-empty room. When had the crowds started getting so big? When had Marcy become Marceline? Maybe it had happened even before you realized it; you remember on a few occasions running through crowds with her beneath the marquee, when she was wild and fierce and sharp.

You look at her and she gives you a raise of her eyebrows, expression expectant. She seems softer somehow now, than in your memories, her edges worn down. You huff a laugh and shift closer to her, bumping your shoulders together,

“Does this make me a groupie now?”

She almost spits out her tea and you erupt in to brawling laughter, settling your mug on the coffee table for fear of spilling it.

“You're an ass, Bonnie,” she mutters around a cough, her mug joining yours on the table, but she's smirking and you loop an arm around her elbow in faux sheepishness before she's pushing you over on the cushions, fingers scuttling across your ribs to pull riotous laugh after laugh from you, all the while her own laughter twirling through yours like smokey tendrils in the space between you. What eventually stills the two of you is the angry pounding on the adjacent wall paired with a muffled shout neither of you can make out. You take the moment to playfully shove her off you with a restrained twitter of a laugh.

“Way to go, Rockstar,” you tease and she rolls her eyes at you, but huffs out a sigh and slumps back against you instead of responding. Your digits absently fan through dark hair and she wordlessly plants herself across your lap, just like she used to. You begin to twist a small braid through her hair, the part behind her ear that cowlicks whenever she crops it short enough. 

You tug on your finished work and she slides her fingers around it before asking “What'd you do?” Her voice is quiet and sleepy.

“Wove in a spell” you murmur quietly as you press a kiss to her temple. She smiles, laughs drowsily and says,

“But you don't believe in magic, Bon.” And for a moment you wish you did, because maybe then this wouldn't feel so fleeting.

You say nothing and the two of you just stay like that for a long while; you only realize you've fallen asleep when you hear her phone buzzing from across the room. Her weight leaves you and it's a disappointing feeling that reminds you of cold winter mornings when the two of you would hit snooze just to stay wrapped in each other's warmth for another few moments.

She yawns and the sound of it makes you open your eyes to see her setting her phone back on the table, the technology quiet and still now.

“What was that?” you mumbled, bleary-eyed.

“Alarm.” She shuffles back to the couch and stretches with a groan.

“What time is it?” She absently tugs at the braid you had given her and rubs at her eyes,

“Six-ish” You close your own eyes are her response.

“What time is your flight?”

“7:35.” Your time is up.

“...I should get going then.” You stand and she looks at you, an odd expression on her face, but you turn away from it, go to pull off the t-shirt she has lent you.  
A hand on your arm stops you. She's standing now. Her eyes meet yours. You want to cry; you feel like you will again if she doesn't say something soon.

"Keep it." Her voice is barely above a whisper. You swear you can hear it crack.

"Please," she adds when all you do is stare at her.

You pull the shirt back down. You don't tell her how thankful you are for it, or how you missed having such a token of her; that old band shirt you coveted was traded away long ago.

She smiles and it's quite far from being happy.

"Marce," you call quietly, though she is right there. She gives you a raise of her brow in acknowledgment. You shift closer and brush your lips against hers. It's a question, shaky and uncertain. She kisses you back, but gone is the feral hunger; all you feel that's left in its wake is a thin wisp of regret, and you think in it is your answer. But when you pull back, she is the one crying silent, pitiful tears. She covers her face with her hands and you don't hesitate to embrace her. 

You make can't out the muffled words, but you think they sound something like:

"I love you."

It's 5:57 A.M.

 

Orion 7/7

You go to the airport with her. You're still wearing her pajamas and she has given you an old pair of slip on shoes to wear, that are only a little too big, along with a small drawstring tote for your own belongings. It's on your lap in the cab and her hand grips yours tight, but the both of you sit in the dull drone of the radio. You can make out the words “here comes the sun” around the static. Her thumb runs circles over you again and it's a strange thought that the previous night actually happened, that your relationship with her has fundamentally changed into something you have no words for. Or perhaps is hasn't really and you're over thinking again.

You look at her from the corner of your eye. She's staring at your hands and you can't quite place the expression she wears.

“Marce,” you call softly. She looks at you with surprise a moment, but then gives you the cutest smile and you feel your resolve crumble; you can't bring yourself to ask the question searing your mind. You pull her hand into your lap instead to knead at her knuckles. She gives one of your fingers a light squeeze and you lean into her with a suppressed sigh. She kisses the crown of your head.

You want to know what this means. You have always striven to understand and to label and to categorize. She hasn't, and you wonder if maybe she doesn't want to. You try to tell yourself you don't mind leaving it, but you know you're lying; you hunger for a name to describe this. What are you to her now? You can't deny the lack of awkward, one-night-stand feelings, but then here she is next to you. She cried in your arms before leaving her apartment. You have always been skeptical of people though; they are not like equations, and you can't be sure one way or the other.

"What, uhm..." Her vocalization makes you pull back to look at her. Her eyes dance between your face and the cab window next to you as she reaches up and pulls strands of her dark hair behind an ear, tugs at that braid, the spell you cast in the late hours even though you don't believe in magic. You think you know what she is about to ask, but then she shifts to face you in her seat and her brow furrows as she moves closer.

She kisses your cheek and presses her forehead against your temple but doesn't finish her thought they way you expect:

"Will you walk to the gate with me?" And she's so quiet as the cab slows to a stop.

"Yeah."

She pays the driver. You help with her luggage.

You look disheveled and a mess, but then so does she and you think it doesn't matter much anyway; she's holding your hand and that's all you really care about right now.

As you wait, you feel a tension build in the silence between you. It's heavy, like lead, and you are aware of it hanging in the air, on the tip of her tongue; she wants to say something. She doesn't until you're at the actual gate.

"Well," is what comes out of her mouth and you feel a sense of disappointment seep in as she turns to you, releases your hand.

She isn't going to say it. Maybe she doesn't know how.

"Well," you echo quietly. You see her swallow as she searches your face. You think this is it. This is the end of it. It's anything but bittersweet.

"I-..." You see her struggling to form words and you can't bare to watch her any longer; you shut your eyes and turn your face away. You thought one night would be fine, that it wouldn't hurt and especially not this bad.

She loops her arms under yours and around your ribs and she holds you so tight so suddenly your eyes fly open and your breath escapes in a quick huff. Her cheek presses against your ear and you can feel the back of your earring press into your skin.

"I won't ask you to wait for me; it's not fair, but I fucking love you, Bon, okay?" And your eyes begin to swim with tears as a strange emotion hits you. You push her away and she looks surprised before you start hitting her shoulders with the sides of your fists. She just looks distressed and confused as she catches your wrists.

"You-!" you start, and the words catch in your throat as a sob hits you. You twist away to cover your tears with the backs of your hands.

"You butt!" you manage. You don't notice all the strangers trying not to stare.

"Bonnie? I don't-"

"I know!" You cut her off, sniffle, and lower your hands.

"What?" She looks like she's trying to decide whether or not to comfort you.

"I know," you repeat and rub at your eyes in a vain attempt to stop the waterworks. "It's okay." She tentatively embraces you again.

You sob into her shoulder, hands locking around the fabric on her back. You hear her start to cry.

She's leaving. She's leaving and it feels like the first time she told you goodbye, but worse now because instead of righteous anger you hold a longing grief to stay with her, though you know you can't. There were reasons you broke apart before. You have responsibilities. Now, she does too and they are far from where you can follow.

It's unfair.

You pull back, but don't let go, and unabashedly kiss her before you can even let yourself think about P.D.A. You see something flash in her eyes when you do and you feel her respond as if she is desperate for the affection; she pushes against you so strongly you stumble and your feet get caught over each other as you push back, because really you're just as desperate as she is. You can feel her hair tickling your chin and you can still smell the bonfire on her. It makes you ache for another moment of looking at the sparse stars and talking of myth by that creek. You worry it will never happen again. You're aware of that reality, but as she moves against you again your heel hooks on the wheel of her suitcase and you quickly find yourself on your backside.

You can feel a bruise forming on your tailbone as she begins to fret and you're pretty sure you heard something crack in your little tote bag when you landed.

"Don't ruin it," you whisper and hook your hands around her neck to pull her to you and kiss her again, but it is over too soon as they announce her plane's final call for boarding. And so you let her go.

 

You watch her plane take off, watch it shrink quickly in to the distance, and in that moment you realize something. She belongs to the sky, a place that tricks you into thinking she is so close, then makes you realize with painful clarity, as soon as you reach out, how you will never again be able to touch her. She is made of poetry and stardust and the rising Sun has taken her from you, but it is your own undoing and you have nothing left of her again but some old clothes and a pair of shoes; the smell of fire.

You shoulder your small pack and walk to hail a cab to take you home.

It's 7:35 A.M.


End file.
